The Domestication of One John H Watson
by soul vacation
Summary: It's never really as simple as it ought to be, when it comes down to it.


There were two basic directions that a pair of people, unrelated or not, could take when they found themselves in close proximity of one another for upwards of six months. Six months, he considered, was long enough to be judged semi-permanent, but anything below it was still in the nebulous area of "will-we-won't-we" that didn't bear long-term consideration of the compatibility of their dynamic as partners.

Well, "partners."

Regardless, no matter how much Sherlock Holmes detested the mundane and pedestrian idea of establishing a domestic status quo, he was far less keen on the idea of it being established without his input. While not an imposing or even particularly demanding man on majority of subjects, Dr. John Watson, late of the military, had been observed to have a peculiar will of iron in certain circumstances, and had more than proven his merits as well as the advantage that would be gained by his continued presence in Sherlock's affairs. This in mind, he had taken to contemplating the directions that their lives could take — an extraordinarily large number of variables, of course, but really only two _broad_ sort of categories that he could work inside — and Sherlock had determined there was some argument for him making the effort to keep John reasonably happy (and therefore local) rather than drive him away.

Reasonably, because there was no need to spoil the man or really go out of his way to change his behavior, but happy, so that he wouldn't be driven to seek other providers for his basic needs and wants. Inconvenience, perhaps, was something that Sherlock abhorred even more than he did repetition and mediocrity, and it would certainly be an _inconvenience_ to have John loping about after someone else, physically or mentally.

Fingers steepled in front of his lips, he hummed low in his throat, watching John mill about in the kitchen without an apparent care in the world. Phase one of any endeavor, no matter how miniscule or grand a gesture it would be, was of course research.

Phase one: begin.

"_John_!"

There was a clatter in the kitchen, a mumbled oath chasing on its heels that made Sherlock's lips twitch up at the corners despite himself. He knew from experience that John had just about finished doctoring his tea, and without bothering to rise and look at him, he'd approximated the three second interval where his flatmate would be holding his teacup, poised between two fingers, for the brief inhale before the first sip.

Of course, now it was all over the table and likely staining the pages that were sprawled out there — a calculated risk, as he was certain nothing _really_ important was likely to be damaged — and John was muttering blackly over the prospect of it.

One, two, three beats —

"_John_!" A hint of impatience threaded in his voice, hardening the n at the tail of his name. John knew from experience that this was his do not keep me waiting tone, and generally it got fairly prompt results.

Sure enough, John leaned around the corner, a frown line etched between his brows as he attempted to sponge tea out of the cuff of his shirt. "Yes, Sherlock, I heard you. What in the devil do you want? I haven't been out of the room for _five minutes_," he added, tone indicating that he thought there was entirely too much carrying on going on in his absence.

Holding out his hand, palm flat and upturned, he demanded, "Patches."

John stared at him a beat, that funny little line between his eyebrows deepening, before he shook his head and turned away.

There were a few more moments of silence before Sherlock asked, a bit waspishly, "Are you getting the patches?"

"Yes, I am getting your damn patches." Sherlock's smile was instant and fluid, eyes crinkling at the corners as John continued, bad-temperedly, "Ruining a good cup of tea just because you can't be arsed to get your own patches from the kitchen."

The box was flipped into his hands with a grudging annoyance, but it was already waning by the time Sherlock rattled a handful out and examined them, pleased. Without preamble or much to-do, he said simply, "Thank you, John." and rolled up the sleeve of his dressing gown, intent on applying them to his arm.

John stilled, and the effect would have been comical if Sherlock wasn't expecting it. He very carefully schooled his expression into nonchalance while John regarded him, tearing open the first package with ease, when it was snatched out of his hands and away from him.

Irritation crossing his features, he demanded, "What—"

But John was simply staring at him, brow knit. "None of that if your brains are already addled, Sherlock. Have a cup of coffee."

He huffed, looking down at his bare forearm. He didn't really need a patch at the moment, but in order to preserve a sense of normalcy and not inspire suspicion at his motives, Sherlock had intended to simply follow through and settle back for a lie-in and a little think. John vetoing that idea hadn't occurred to him, which annoyed him.

"My brains are _certainly_ not addled," he replied, brows arched up sharply, then down forbiddingly. "Regardless, it stands to reason that if they were, I would still be functioning at a much higher level than someone such as yourself would readily notice as deficient."

Remarkably, John wasn't offended. Wasn't even annoyed, really, as he responded mildly, "Yes, I'm sure. But I noticed, didn't I? Coffee," he repeated, disappearing into the kitchen again.

For a moment, Sherlock remained as he was, listening to cupboard doors opening and closing in the kitchen. The result of the first aberration in his behavior — casually expressed gratitude over an insignificant event — had been met with significantly more suspicion than it had pleasure. He would have to rethink his strategy and proceed very carefully so as not to further arouse John's selectively keen eye.

Well. It shouldn't prove _too_ difficult.


End file.
